The Dog

Half a mile down the mountain from Red Apple, we find her,

Mouth full of blood, neck broken

No tags on her pink collar.

Whatever hit her has moved on.

We drag her body to the shoulder

To keep what is left of her holy.

The snow is tamped down in muddy tracks

where people have come and gone

In the car again, my daughter

snarls at me, appalled that we are playing

word games that make us laugh.

The dog probably loved a person

In a warm house that doesn’t know yet,

Her metal bowl on the floor by the kitchen

A soft plaid bed that smells like her, waiting

We are disgracing her, my daughter says.

Haven’t you learned anything about grace, child?

Death does not ask permission

Even if our legs are still strong

Even if we were planning a hike along the river for tomorrow

Even if we will leave an indelible ache behind

It comes anyway.

We laugh while we still can.

Our impermanence can hang over us

Or it can set us free.

In the memory I’ve chosen

The dog has come out of the woods

Full-speed, a pine cone in her mouth 

Knowing no joy greater than the freedom to run

As she enters the road